The Vampires
by Sparkling Slayer
Summary: A Terry Pratchett (may he live forever!) style look at a couple of vampires....not saying more, you'll have to read it to see! If you read it, PLEASE review it!!


Author: Jacqueline Burns

Rating: General – no violence, no swearing

Disclaimer: Discworld, Lancre and Ankh-Morpork belong to Terry Pratchett. However, all other characters contained herein belong to me. Long live Terry Pratchett!

Use: If you like it, please use it. But let me know where and when!

Feedback: YES PLEASE! Always appreciated. Let me know if I should give up! :o) Either post a review here or email me at jay.b@slayme.com

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Watch as the lightning cracks across the sky, flaring whitely above the jagged peaks. Listen to the wild howl and scream of the wind, and the steady drum of the rain as it beats down into the hills and craggy mountains. Can you guess where we are yet? Look down at the deep valleys, the thick forests, the peaks and dips. Ravines roar with waterfalls; here, a river hisses through a deep gorge. The mountains have their _own _weather, here……and it's trying. It's throwing everything it's got at the mountains, tonight. It's going for a virtuoso performance, one time only. before it leaves on a Discworld tour.

Come, draw closer to one of the peaks and see! - a ruined castle tops the crags. Only one tower is left intact, swaying dangerously in the roaring wind; the tumbledown castle looms over a small huddled village, where the peasants hang garlic in their windows and draw crosses on their doors. Who knows why they do it? Well, they do, obviously. And we may know as well, soon. One light shines dimly from a curtained window high in that rocking, creaking tower; but come a little closer, and we'll see what we can see..…

* * * 

  
The bat squeaked as it thumped into the thickly leaded glass of the window, its small face squashed against the diamond-shaped panes, wings flailing madly in the wind. Inside the room, Mrs Johnson's head tilted to one side and she sighed, put her knitting carefully to one side and crossed to the window, tripping on the long trailing black satin dress she wore. 

She parted the curtains and peered out, uttering a small yelp as she came face to squashed face with the bat which was bobbing wildly up and down, wings a blur as it tried to stay next to the window. She hurriedly unlatched one side of the window frame, hanging on for dear life (or almost) as the bat and most of the storm fell inside. Sniffing, she forced the window shut against the howling gale, and drew the curtains closed again. The cheery glow of yellow lamplight shone on the dusky pink and yellow rose pattern on the thick velvet.

The bat plopped onto the stone floor with a damp squish and a sad squeak. Mrs Johnson cleared her throat and primly turned her back for a moment; a loud popping noise filled the room. When she turned back round, her bedraggled husband sat on the floor in a soggy heap, surrounded by folds of wet black silk. The red satin lining of his long cloak gleamed softly in the bright light from the lamps; he mopped at his face and winced as his traditional evening dress started to steam slightly in the warmth from the electric fire (no real flames _here_, thank you very much). 

"I _told _you not to go out in that weather, Albert Johnson!" she said crossly, arms folded tightly across her lace-covered bosom. "Told you not to go flying about in that rain! You'll catch your death of cold, you will - oh, wait. No, you won't. Well, you'll drip everywhere!" she finished, sniffing as she looked down at him. 

He sat, open mouthed on the floor for a moment. "But, dear, you did tell me to go!" he protested. "You said I should menace and, and be all evil to the villagers! Let them know who's boss around here…" He plucked glumly at a fold of the silk. "They're all inside anyway. Wasted, all that effort - have you any idea how hard it is to fly in that wind out there? Nearly got blown halfway to Ankh-Morpork!" 

"No I don't, and I did not," she said primly, mouth pursed, "tell you to go out! Well, I didn't mean tonight, anyway. You've brought half the weather in here with you, I don't know, I'll have to mop the floor now……" she wandered away as Mr Albert Johnson, Vampire, climbed to his feet and stood in a quickly forming puddle. 

Hmm, I can hear you thinking, vampires? Children of the night, and all that? Evil bloodsuckers, armies of darkness? Yes, well, it takes all sorts, you know. Not everyone is tall enough to carry off the black silk cloak…… Perhaps I should describe the Johnsons'. And explain…… 

* * *

Mr Albert Johnson was middle-aged, balding, small and round; an average man, if you will. Married for fifteen long-suffering years to Mrs Edna Johnson, he sold life insurance, trudging round the small town they lived in, mostly knocking on doors. One day, he went outside his usual route. And came, just as the sun began to set (traditionally, of course!) to the almost-but-not-quite ruined mansion that these towns always have on the outskirts. 

__

You know the place - the one where ivy curls over the walls, and litter blows behind the tall wrought-iron fencing. Where the grass has grown wild and long, and there are no birds in the ragged and overgrown trees. Where there are no outward signs of life but still - you know something's in there. The one the neighbourhood kids have dared each other to go into…. Yes, that's it! I can see you know perfectly well which one I mean. The one where angels perhaps would fear to tread, but salesmen go fearlessly….

He knocked on the door, the sound from the weathered lions-head knocker booming hollowly down the more-or-less empty corridors. You may, perhaps, think he should have been suspicious when the door creaked and jerked slowly open by itself, yawning onto a cobwebbed corridor, lit only by rapidly fading daylight slanting through three large windows. He ventured partly inside, calling out, and jumped when a large black cat appeared from a side room. It sat, calmly watched him for a moment, then turned and trotted down the hallway, turning to look at him. Mr Johnson dithered for a moment, then followed it; crossing all the way over the threshold and into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him, suddenly, with an echoing, hollow boom. He jumped nervously and dropped his briefcase, scattering brochures and pamphlets all over the floor. As he scrabbled round, picking them up, he could almost have sworn that he heard the cat sigh in exasperation…… he shook his head. _Albert_, he thought, _you're imagining things! No flights of fancy, now; pull yourself together!_

And all the while, the light in the sky outside slowly dribbled away, the night looming closer and closer… He glanced out of one of the windows. The sun was down, the garden outside full of shadows, crowding ever more thickly round the stark trees. He finished stuffing the papers into the briefcase and nodded nervously to the cat - it flicked its tail at him, nodded back, rose to its feet and moved away. 

He followed the cat and they reached a room deep inside the house, where no sunlight ever came. The cat politely moved to one side to let Mr Johnson go first; he bent down to pat it and it hissed, slashing him across the back of the hand. Mr Johnson yelped and jumped quickly back, eyeing the four shallow scratches which had begun to bead with dark red blood - and the dark wooden door in front of him swung open, silently, smoothly, as if oiled. Mr Johnson timidly poked his head into the room beyond it, looking round. A few candles flickered fitfully, here and there. Several sneering portraits hung on the pale walls, their eyes almost alive in the dancing candlelight. A vast fireplace yawned emptily in the wall facing the door, the mantle above it holding a single vase with some dead roses in it. Mr Johnson cleared his throat, and loosened his collar slightly. An armchair with a tall back was partly turned away from the door and from its shadowed depths a pale hand emerged, beckoning. Mr Johnson cleared his throat again, moved forwards, stopped in front of the chair and eyed his host somewhat doubtfully - he was so dreadfully pale and thin! And there seemed to be something wrong with his teeth? Perhaps life insurance was too late, he thought, but he'd got this far… 

He shrugged to himself, settled into his patter, offered his leaflets - and the vampire (you will have guessed by now, I hope!) laughed. "Vhat a vonderful joke!" he exclaimed, smirking. "But, my dear sir, I have no need of - ahem, life insurance!" He giggled, looking at Mr Johnson over his steepled fingers, tried to straighten his face and gave up, dissolving into slightly mad laughter again. He slowly gained enough control to gasp out, "But please, do carry on…?" 

Mr Johnson paused for a moment, then began again. The vampire listened for a few minutes longer, then decided - and what a _delicious_ thing it would be to tell his friends at the Club, he thought - that he would demonstrate to Mr Johnson exactly why he did not need life insurance. And indeed, why Mr Johnson himself would never need that particular product and the policy he no doubt already had…... 

* * *

In short order, Mr Johnson found that he couldn't bear the touch of sunlight, slept like the dead all day (for very good reason!), had worryingly long fangs and had a sudden uncontrollable craving for blood (satisfied very nicely by the raw steak that Mrs Johnson had in the fridge). And as for Mrs Johnson's incessant nagging - two nights after he'd met the vampire, he snapped and bit her. Unfortunately for him, he didn't _quite_ do it properly and had now come to the conclusion that he might have made a dreadful mistake, especially when she proved to have longer fangs than him. 

Mrs Johnson had promptly gone out and done her research. If they were going to be vampires, then they'd do it properly, clothes and all. Oh, yes. She'd also decided (as yet unbeknown to her poor husband) that middle-class suburbia was no place to be a vampire in. Oh, no! Lancre was the only place to be. She'd read "_Dracula – Lord of Lancre_" and any other book featuring vampires that she could lay her hands on; she'd gone to a Vampires Anonymous meeting; and had joined a Flying for Beginners Club. 

Anything that hinted at having a vampire in it, she'd looked at, and they all agreed that one had to be in out in the untamed Wilds, the Old Country (so to speak) to be a proper Children (Child? she wondered) of the Night…… And she'd already found a very helpful estate agent who specialised in properties of the looming, ruined castle variety. Why, she was sure Albert would love the place she'd found! With a few home comforts it would be as if they'd never moved…apart from all the trees and the mountains, of course.

* * *

Mr Johnson woke later than usual - the sun had long since set – and rose from his uncomfortable sleeping place under the bed with the fluff and the spiders (and a discarded sock and a lost slipper). He crawled out from under the bed, washed briefly (more to get the dust off than anything else) and slipped off his pyjama top. When the door opened behind him, he turned, holding it up almost as a shield. 

"AAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!" he screamed, biting through the collar in shock. Mrs Johnson stood in the doorway, smiling widely at him. 

"Vot do you tink, my darlink?" she purred. As you can see, Mrs Johnson is also determined to get the accent right. 

Let me draw a picture for you….. We'll start at the ground and work our way up. A black silk and lace dress, some 6 inches too long, pools round her feet on the floor. Mrs Johnson is, ah, about five feet two inches tall and – plump, I believe would be a good word. But onwards…. The full skirt rises to what is (usually in vampire females) a slender waist. This is not quite the case where Mrs Johnson is concerned…... 

Anyway. Upwards to the large bosom, yanked in and jacked up by a straining corset, covered by what seems like acres of yet more black silk and lace, then on to a large bat-pendant hanging on a black cord. Upwards again, this time to her white skin with the traditional glossy blood-scarlet lipstick and heavily made up eyes (unfortunately for Mrs Johnson, she looks as though two flies have parachuted into a sugar bowl) and then to, well. Ahem. No flowing glossy raven locks here, no silver streaks; Mrs Johnson has instead short, cork-screwy yellow curls. The picture is complete. 

No wonder Mr Johnson was surprised…….


End file.
